


tarry with me

by apaio



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 18:07:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17771684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apaio/pseuds/apaio
Summary: “He’s staring at me.”Brian rolls his eyes. “I’m sure he’s not. Not everyone wants to stare at you all day, Roger.”Roger feels annoyance flare inside him. “You sure do,” he says.-Brian leaves Roger alone in a bar after an argument. He'll regret it.





	tarry with me

**Author's Note:**

> ok,,h
> 
> warnings are attempted noncon, which is stopped before it happens, and hints at stalking i guess. it's a tough topic and i hope i've handled it respectfully. not going too much into my own experiences but i think i have from a personal standpoint. it's solely as an initiating plot point, and is treated seriously and non-fetishisingly. 
> 
> set around '77

Roger is surprised he even notices the man watching him from the edge of the room. He makes eye contact with him by sheer chance from where he sits at a table, and the man raises a glass to him as he watches intently. He makes Roger feel uneasy somehow, and he shifts on the uncomfortable seat.

“Are you even listening to me, Roger?” Brian asks tersely.

Roger’s attention snaps back to the man in front of him. It’s just them now, Freddie having prior plans and John heading back home a couple of hours earlier.

“W-what?” he says eloquently.

For the life of him, Roger can’t remember why Brian looks so brassed off with him. If anyone should be annoyed, it should be him, Brian’s complaints about one of his songs having no real foundations outside of Brian’s own personal preferences.

 _“We’re not punk,”_ Brian had said.

 _“Genre’s never mattered to you before!”_ he’d pointed out. _“And I wrote it three years ago, it’s not got anything to do with trends.”_

It had devolved from there. Roger thinks he might have told Brian he had the biggest ego in the band at some point, which could be why Brian looks so irked. They’ve both said a few unkind things to each other this evening, and it’s definitely the fault of the drink. Roger’s getting tired – he’s had the perfect amount of ale to put him somewhere between relaxed and drunk, and it’s giving him a headache.

“Christ, Rog, you can’t even listen to me for two minutes?” he asks. “I listen to you whinge on all evening.” Brian turns around to look at whatever caught his eye, before he turns back frowning. “What’s got you so interested over there? One of your conquests?” It’s said unkindly, and something flares in Roger.

“No,” he snaps. “It’s just some guy,” he says, more subdued, and looks back up. The guy is still watching him. “He’s staring at me.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “I’m sure he’s not. Not everyone wants to stare at you all day, Roger.”

Roger feels annoyance flare inside him. “You sure do,” he says.

Brian looks like he’s been slapped for a second, before his expression closes off. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he replies, low and dangerous.

Roger does feel a bit bad. He’s seen him, of course he has, and it’s not really something he’s wanted to bring up in an argument. It’s not really something he’s deconstructed, but he’d much rather talk about it a little more privately and seriously when he has. Even if he never would – he’s too much of a coward, after all – it shouldn’t be ammunition. His shoulders slump in defeat. “Brian,” he begins.

“No,” Brian says. “You know what, I’m leaving. Don’t follow me,” he says as he stands.

“Brian!” he protests.

“You can be a real prick sometimes, Rog,” he says as he pulls his coat on.

Roger stares at him. “How are you getting back?”

“I’ll get a taxi,” he says, and begins to leave.

“Brian, wait!” he calls.

Brian turns and stares at him expectantly.

He wants to apologise. He really does, but then Brian will think he’s won the whole damn argument and get a spectacular ego boost, and Roger will have to put up with this shit all over again tomorrow when his song gets brought back up. So instead, he says, “Can I borrow some cash?”

“What?” Brian essentially spits.

“I don’t have any. I can’t get back.”

Brian stares at him for a moment incredulously. “Sort it out yourself.”

“How?” he asks.

“You may not act it, but you’re a smart man, Roger. You can work it out,” he says. “In the least, I’m sure you can whore your way into a bed for the night.”

Roger finds himself silenced in shock, and he can feel his face drop. Brian looks briefly regretful, like he might take it back, before he just shakes his head and leaves. Roger stares into the near empty pint glass in front of him.

He sits there like that for a little while, slightly too dazed to really think. He’s sure Brian must have found a taxi to get in by now, so he downs his pint and heads outside. He hasn’t really got a plan, but he could do with a walk. He thinks he might be about half an hour away from an old girlfriend who’ll be sympathetic enough to his cause. _Brian was right_ , he thinks emptily.

The cold night air hits him as he steps outside, and he takes a moment to breathe it in. He walks slightly away from the door to stand at the corner of the pub, slightly tucked into the alley that runs up the side of it. Christ, he needs a smoke.

He pulls a cigarette out of the box in his jacket pocket, placing it between his lips and sparking his lighter. He draws in a deep breath and closes his eyes.

“Hey, mate,” a voice says.

Roger looks up. It’s the man from before, and Roger immediately feels his guard go up. He’s a fair bit bigger than Roger, both in height and build, with the sort of beard that doesn’t quite suit him. While his expression seems friendly enough, there’s something cold in his brown eyes.

“Got a light?” he asks.

The man puts a cigarette in his own mouth, and Roger relaxes a little at the anxious sort of expression he’s being given.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, and goes to his pocket, looking down as he does.

Two hands grip his arms and shove him into the alley before his brain catches up with what’s happening. He’s turned around and shoved face first into the wall. The brick is rough against his face, stinging, and Roger’s pretty sure he’s grazed his cheek on it.

Hot breath touches his neck, and he tries to flinch away from it, but the weight on his body stays strong and his arms remain restrained.

“Saw you looking,” the man says in his ear. Despite the pain on his cheek, Roger tries to press his head closer to the wall to get away from the voice. “You’ve got a pretty face. I know what pretty boys like you want.”

Roger tries to thrash out, but the man grabs his wrist tight enough to bruise, pulling the painfully behind his back as he presses against them. One hand coupled with his body weight is enough to hold him still.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the man says to deny him.

Roger feels a hand snaking its way to his front and undoing his belt. He clenches his eyes shut. “I wasn’t looking,” he says, willing his voice to be strong, and almost managing. “Let me go.”

Teeth brush against his ear. “No need to play coy with me, sunshine.” He bites down the back of his neck. “I heard what your friend said,” he whispers. Roger isn’t sure what he’s talking about before he murmurs, “ _whore_.”

His belt is undone now, quickly followed by his fly. A hand slips into his briefs, and he jerks his hips back, and his rear comes into contact with something _hard_ , and he freezes.

“Eager,” the man comments.

Roger struggles again, but the man shushes in his ear as he begins to palm his cock. It does, distressingly, begin to express interest, and Roger feels shame rising hot in his face. He presses his head against the wall, giving another pointless struggle.

The hand pulls away then, and Roger isn’t sure where it goes for a moment before he feels fingers prod at his mouth. He clenches his teeth, trying to stop them in their endeavour.

“Got to ease the way somehow,” the man tells him, and Roger can’t see his face but he can hear him smiling. “Don’t think you want me dry, pretty boy.”

Roger isn’t entirely sure why he opens his mouth, maybe some part of his brain thinking of it as self-preservation, but he does, and the fingers slip inside. They’re salty, bitter and rough, and Roger thinks he might gag as they prod the inside of his cheek. They’re removed, trailing saliva after them.

“Relax,” the voice hisses in his ear.

The now-wet hand shifts to give a bruising grip on one of his hips. His jeans have slipped slightly off his hips, and the way he’s manoeuvred against the wall grazes his hipbone on the brick as well. The hand gripping his wrists disappears to push his trousers down, and Roger knows that’s his chance.

He throws his elbow back to hit the man in the ribs with as much strength he can muster. He stumbles off him with a breathless sound, and Roger tries to slip away, but he’s almost immediately shoved back into the wall. He hits his head, and it rings in his ears.

“You little prick,” the man says.

He feels his jeans worked down, and his legs kicked apart, an arm looping around his waist to hold him still.

It’s a last-ditch attempt, but he kicks out at the man’s instep. It works, and he falls back, and Roger turns around to swing an inaccurate punch into his nose. It _hurts_ , but he hears a crack and the man is far enough away from him to stumble his way backwards out of the alley. He doesn’t turn around until he’s turned the corner, pulling his jeans back up as he does.

Roger goes straight back into the pub, rushing his way into the toilet, locking himself in the single dodgy-looking cubicle. He wants to be sick, but nothing feels like it’ll come up, so he settles on resting his head against the stall and trying to level his breathing and not cry. He doesn’t know how long he’s in there, but when he comes out he heads straight to the sink and swills his mouth out.

He leaves on shaky legs, heading to the bar with a ringing in his ears, feeling like he’s not quite there. The barmaid seems to have left, and has been replaced by a much older woman that reminds Roger of a teacher he had at primary school.

“I’m really sorry, but could I use your phone?” he asks, voice sounding painfully hoarse and choked up even to him.

She looks like she might deny him – it is late after all – but she takes one good look at him and nods. For the first time that evening, Roger is glad for his baby face and bright blue eyes. She lets him around the back of the bar, taking him to the side.

“There you go, love,” she says as she gestures to the phone on the wall.

What he wants most of all is to call Brian. He wants Brian’s warm sympathy and his gentle touch and he wants desperately to be huddled up to him in his bed, like how they’d ended up when drunk and younger.

 _Whore_ , Brian’s voice echoes in his mind.

He doesn’t call Brian. He dials. He hears the phone being picked up on the other end of the line.

_“Hello?”_

“John,” he says, voice thick. “John, it’s Roger.” He swallows. “Could you pick me up, please?”

*

John, bless him, arrives in record time without much complaining. Roger’s been watching through the window, not wanting to stand outside, with a mug of tea the kindly landlady – the woman who had given him access to a phone – had provided. He vows to return soon and leave an almighty tip and a bouquet of flower, if he could ever face going back.

John pulls up and gets out of the car, and Roger rushes out of the pub. He wants nothing more than to not be there anymore. John looks like he’s about to ask Roger why he’s alone, why he needs to pick him up, that he owes him, anything, but John looks him up and immediately rushes forward.

“Bloody hell, Roger, what happened?” he asks, and places a hand on his shoulder.

Roger is almost surprised he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he wants nothing more than to hug his friend. He doesn’t, instead opting to carry on walking towards John’s car.

“Can we just go, please, Deaks?” he asks weakly.

John nods, and obliges. The car pulls away as soon as Roger gets in it, and he finds himself just staring at his lap, trying to ignore the concerned glances John shoots in his direction. The silence lets him think, which he would really rather not because _fuck_ , that really just happened, and the rolling motion of the car churns his stomach.

He lasts about five minutes.

“John?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“Can you pull over?”

John looks at him with a frown, but does it. There’s not much traffic, anyway. He looks like he’s about to ask why, but Roger is already out of the car.

He heaves his guts out onto the verge.

He leans forward with his hands against his knees for a little while, and he can see John’s brown brogues appear beside him. He’s suddenly aware that John has his hand on his back in what he assumes John aims to be a comforting gesture. It is.

“You didn’t look that drunk, Rog, are you getting sick?”

Roger doesn’t answer the question. “Can I sleep at yours tonight?” he asks abruptly as he stands.

“Not if you’re getting sick, Rog,” John replies gently. “I don’t want Ronnie catching anything,” he says, and Roger understands, seeing as she’s pregnant.

“I’m not-” he starts, and stops. He knows if he admits it, then John will _ask_. But he doesn’t want to be alone, be alone in an empty house asleep and unable to do anything to protect himself if anything were to happen. He feels tears in his eyes. “I’m not getting sick, John, I promise.”

“Then-” John is going to ask, Roger knows, but he stops. He looks like he’s thinking, and Roger thinks he has a suspicion, especially when his eyes trail across Roger’s bruised wrists. Instead, John plasters on a smile. “Of course. As long as you don’t mind being woken at four in the morning by a screaming child.”

He smiles tearfully. “That’s fine,” he replies. “Thank you. I’ll cook you two breakfast as a thank you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” John says. “I quite like my kitchen.”

*

It’s late when they get back to John’s. He makes them both sneak in the door, but Roger knows immediately that Veronica’s still up. The telly hums away with muted conversation in the living room.

“I’ll go put some sheets on the bed in the spare bedroom,” John says and nods for Roger to walk through.

He walks into the living room without too much thought. Veronica looks up, and he’s about to greet her, but she stands and speaks first.

“What happened, Roger?” she asks immediately, expression filled with a tremendous amount of care.

Roger is about to try and reassure her, but he turns slightly and catches sight of himself in the mirror. His cheek is grazed and beginning to bruise, still dirty, his hair mussed, and his clothes in disarray. There are tear tracks on his face, and he isn’t entirely sure when they fell.

Veronica gently pushes him back to sit down on the sofa. “I’ll go get some stuff,” she says, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Ronnie, you don’t have to-” he tries to stop her.

She throws an incredulous look over her shoulder as she leaves the room, John reappearing just as she does.

“I’ve put some sheets down. I can get you-” John stops when he sees him. It occurs to Roger the light wasn’t exactly good last time he saw him.

“That bad, huh?” Roger asks, trying to make light, but his voice just comes out broken.

John smiles an obviously fake smile. “You’ve had worse.”

“Take his coat, John,” Veronica says as she walks back in, a few items and a glass of water in her hands.

John leaps into action, and Roger slips his coat off to reveal the white t-shirt underneath. He knows John can see the bruises forming on his wrists, the clear shape of fingers, and he knows his shirt has ridden up a little around his hips. He pulls it down quickly, knowing he’s being too optimistic to hope he hasn’t seen the bruising there either.

Either way, John doesn’t comment and takes his coat.

Veronica hands him the glass of water and sits down next to him. He drinks it greedily and sets it down on the floor when it’s empty.

“Look at me,” she says quietly, and he does. She has some sort of wipe in her hand, and Roger thinks based on the smell that it’s antiseptic.

He hisses when she brushes it against his cheek, but is deeply grateful that she neither apologises nor tells him to _suck it up_. She gently takes his hands and does the same to his grazed knuckles – he never even noticed that they weren’t just bruised.

“You get into a fight?” she asks, not meeting his eyes as she works on his hand.

“No,” he says before he can stop himself, before he thinks maybe he should’ve said he had.

John leans against the doorframe, watchful and concerned but like he doesn’t know what to say.

“Is that all of it?” Ronnie asks, meeting his eyes.

Roger doesn’t answer, but the graze on his hip throbs. It’s a lot deeper than the one on his cheek, and was pressed on by unkind fingers hard enough to bruise.

“Do you want me to take a look?” she inquires.

He finds himself staring at John. “I’m okay.”

She follows his eye line. “Would you let me look if John left?”

“Ronnie-” John starts behind her.

“John,” she answers and looks at him. Roger can’t see the expression she gives him but John looks like he’s restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

“Alright,” Roger agrees. He isn’t sure why, because it’s not even that sensitive. It’s just because Roger knows he can make out fingers on his hips, and he knows John is a smart enough man to put two and two together and make an assumption.

She shoots a pointed look at John, who leaves. Roger can hear him climb the stairs, and he undoes his belt and the top button of his jeans before he shifts them slightly down, just enough to expose the graze. It does look quite nasty in the light, bits of red brick still embedded in his skin and bruising skin surrounding it in the shape of fingers, but Ronnie doesn’t comment and simply cleans it as she did his other scrapes.

“Do you need to go to the hospital, Roger?” Veronica asks gently.

“No,” he answers quickly.

She looks at him sympathetically. “If… _something_ happened, Roger, it might be best to get checked out.”

“Nothing happened,” he denies quickly.

“Roger-”

“I’m serious,” he says, willing his voice to be firm. “He tried. But- but I stopped him.”

Ronnie seems satisfied enough with his answer. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” he replies. “Sorry Ronnie, I really appreciate-”

“Roger,” she says, holding a hand up. “I don’t mind. It’s alright. I just thought you might like to.”

“Oh,” he says, and something warm blooms in his chest. “Thank you.”

Veronica smiles. She rubs his shoulder gently before reaching behind her to pick up a small tube. “It’s arnica,” she tells him. “For your bruises. You can do it before you go to bed.”

“Thank you,” he says again.

She stands up. “I’m heading off to bed now. I’ll make sure John gets you some towels.”

*

John’s a smart man.

He went to a grammar school, he got straight As at both O-Level and A-Level. He graduated university with a first class degree while balancing being in an up-and-coming rock band. He builds amps, he manages finances. The point is, he’s smart enough to put two things together.

John knows something happened. He’s pretty sure he knows what, too, given the bruises on Roger’s hips and the fact that he’d prefer to be with Ronnie than with him. He doesn’t want to admit it though, so he maintains a certain level of denial that night. It doesn’t mean he sleeps well, and he isn’t sure how to broach the subject with Roger.

In the morning, Ronnie tells him to get Roger’s clothes so she can clean them. He can borrow some of John’s – maybe it’s time he gives some of Roger’s old clothes _back_ , anyway – and if he needs to stay longer, they can go around to his place and get some later. John thinks Ronnie knows too, seeing as she’s so ready to let him stay.

He goes into the room while Roger’s in the shower to retrieve the pile of clothes, taking them out the room and putting them in a pile on his and Ronnie’s bed with the rest of their laundry.

He returns to the guestroom with some clean clothes of his own and a small, unopened box of three pairs of briefs he got for his birthday but hadn’t opened. Roger sits on the bed, skin red from a shower John can tell was too hot.

“Hey,” he says as he enters, and Roger looks up. The red-rimmed eyes make John’s heart clench. “Ronnie’s washing your clothes,” he explains, setting the clothes down on the far side of the bed. He wonders if he should say anything, knowing Roger probably doesn’t want him to know. He thinks that maybe he should, though – it wouldn’t be fair to keep him in the dark that he knows. “There’s some new briefs in there, too,” he says, gesturing to the pile.

Roger nods, a little dazed, and John finds himself chewing his lip.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to take you to the hospital?” he asks gently.

“I don’t-” Roger starts, and his voice is rough.

“I won’t tell anyone,” John says quickly. “And I won’t make you tell me what happened, o-or anything. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Roger seems to relax a bit, but he looks like he might cry. John isn’t used to him being so quiet. “Nothing happened,” he says, a little emptily. “I’m okay.”

John shifts his weight. “You’re not, Roger,” he replies. “If something did happen, you really should see a doctor-”

“Seriously, John,” he says, looking up at him. “Nothing happened. I- uh, got away,” he clears his throat, “before anything could happen.”

John wants to believe him, but isn’t quite sure he does.

“I promise,” he stresses, and the look in his eyes makes John believe it.

“Do you want me to call anyone?” he asks after a moment. “Brian?”

He looks away then, heaves a small sob, and John wonders what he’s done wrong. He sits gently on the bed next to, placing a hand on Roger’s shoulder. Roger leans into it, and John wraps his arm around him into a side-on hug.

“Rog, do you want me to call him?”

“He won’t- he won’t want to see me,” Roger says. “We had a fight.”

“I’m sure he’ll put it to the side if I told him-” _you’re hurt_ ; he tries to finish.

“No!” Roger cuts him off, and John knows what he thinks he was going to say. “You can’t, John, promise me.”

Roger looks so panicked, tears in his eyes, that he can’t deny it. “I promise, I promise,” he says softly. “It’s alright.”

They sit like that for a little while, and John’s heart aches as he watches Roger get himself back under control.

“I don’t know why I’m…like this,” Roger says. “He didn’t even- I got away. It could have been so much worse. I’m okay.” He doesn’t sound quite convinced by his own statement.

“Just because he didn’t-” John cuts himself off, not entirely sure either Roger or him wants to hear it put into words. “Just because it didn’t get that far, doesn’t…negate what happened,” he reasons, rubbing his thumb over Roger’s shoulder. “What happened was bad enough, and you don’t have to feel bad for not being okay.”

John realises he doesn’t know exactly what happened, but seeing as his assumption had sent Roger into a string of denial, he thinks he’s right. They stay like that for a little longer, before Roger gives a determined little nod.

“You can stay here for as long as you need,” John says as he retracts his arm once Roger’s calmed down.

“Is that alright with Ronnie?” Roger croaks.

He smiles gently. “She suggested it.”

“She’s amazing,” he says.

“I know.”

He leaves Roger at that, how he thinks he wants to be for now. He’ll come out when he’s ready, John’s sure. He thinks he should call Brian. He vows that he won’t tell Brian anything about what happened, and just ask him to come see him. He goes to his phone, paging through the scrawled notes that sit to its left to find the number, and calls.

“Brian,” he says immediately once the phone’s picked up. “It’s John.”

 _“Oh, hi John,”_ Brian sounds confused.

John pauses then, slightly unsure of what he was actually planning to say. “Are you busy?”

 _“No,”_ he replies. _“Everything alright?”_

“Yes,” he answers quickly, before realising he’s very much wrong. “Well, it’s Roger.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. _“What about him?”_

“He’s at mine,” John says. “I think you should come see him.”

Brian huffs a bitter sounding laugh. _“Did he put you up to this?”_

“No,” he defends.

_“Why’s he at yours? You didn’t pick him up last night, did you?”_

“And what if I did?” John’s getting annoyed, he can feel it inside himself.

_“God, that’s so inconsiderate. You have a child-”_

“I am quite aware of that, Brian,” he interrupts. “Would you please come see him?”

There’s another pause over the phone. _“Is something wrong?”_

John stops. _I promise_ , echoes in his head, spoken to Roger in comfort but not without earnestness. He doesn’t know how much he can reveal to Brian, so he doesn’t. “Brian, come over.”

 _“No, Deaky,”_ Brain replies. _“Unless he’s dying, or seriously injured, I don’t care.”_

His gut churns at that, and he clenches his jaw. He’s angry how insensitive Brian sounds, but he has to remind himself he has no idea what’s happened.

Brian seems to take his lack of answer as a denial of anything happening. _“If that’s all you called for, I’ll be going now.”_

“Alright,” he replies, a tad emptily, listening to the dial tone.

*

Roger pretends he doesn’t hear John’s failed attempt to get Brian to come over. Rationally, he knows he’s still upset from the night before, but it still breaks his heart that Brian won’t see him when he really needs him.

He’s done some thinking. He’s done nothing but think, and it’s painful and he hates it, but when he isn’t thinking about what happened he’s thinking about Brian.

What he said in the pub to him that night wasn’t fair. He knew it when it came out of his mouth. Not only was it not fair, it wasn’t necessarily true either. It’s one of those things Roger thinks he’s noticed, but might put it down to projection. After all, he knows who he’s staring at every time they’re on stage.

He’s known for years, really. Whether he’s been in denial or just too scared to say anything, he is less sure about. But the fact he knows why he’s so upset that Brian isn’t coming doesn’t lessen the sting in his heart.

John tries his best, and Roger does appreciate it, but he’s not in love with him like he is Brian.

*

Over the next few days, things more or less return to normal, excluding the permanent buzz of anxiety in Roger’s veins and the rift he feels from Brian. So in many ways, it’s not normal. Freddie seems to have picked up that something’s wrong, but doesn’t comment.

Roger intended to apologise to Brian, but Brian barely speaks to him outside of recording, and the fact he hasn’t just pushes them further apart. They just continue to fight when tensions rise, and although Roger tries to control his temper, he’s feeling like he’s spinning out of control. He says more things he regrets, and receives hurtful words in return, and the idea of fixing it is becoming increasingly daunting.

Brian doesn’t even comment on the bruises that appeared from that night, and somehow that hurts worse of all.

He goes back to his own home on Thursday, not wanting to keep being an inconvenience to John and Veronica, no matter how much they tell him he’s not. He buys John a bottle of wine he knows he likes, and Ronnie the biggest bouquet of flowers he can find, and returns to his empty house. He doesn’t sleep more than a couple of hours each night.

They have a couple of local gigs booked the following weekend, in a small venue they used to play. He’s been looking forward to it, the adrenaline making him feel some semblance towards human again.

The first night goes well. He catches a taxi straight after their set, which earns him a concerned glance from Freddie, but it’s the first night all week that he sleeps well and without a nightmare. The second night, in terms of the performance, goes equally well, but he makes the mistake of joining the rest of the band in the bar after.

It’s nice to spend more time with Freddie and John, but Brian is still pointedly ignoring him and the fact that he’s rejecting the girls coming up to flirt with him makes all of them stare at him with confusion.

At one point, he accidentally presses his shoulder against Brian’s, and Brian moves away silently. It startles him a little, and though he doesn’t think Freddie or John notice it, he sure does. He downs his drink and gets up to head to the bar.

He stands at the bar for a good few minutes before he flags down the bartender, and by the time he does, the bartender is already placing a drink he didn’t order in front of him, pointing vaguely to the other end of the bar and saying it’s on him. Roger looks, but he can’t see anyone.

It’s a stupid decision to drink it, especially so quickly, but he does, and he suddenly feels very fuzzy. He tries to blink it away, but it doesn’t work.

A hand wraps around his bicep in a bruising grip, and he comes face to face with the man from the week before. He’s got two black eyes from a broken nose. It’s a wonder Roger doesn’t throw up on his shoes right there and then with the way fear rises inside of him.

“Got who you were from the barmaid, she recognised you,” the man tells him like it’s nothing. “Let’s finish what we started the other night.”

He seems to have overestimated how quickly whatever in his drink would work, and Roger manages to shove him off, pushing into the crowd of people surrounding the bar to get away. He walks as fast as he can on shaky legs back to the group, grasping John’s shoulder when he gets there.

John’s laughing at something, but he meets Roger’s eyes and immediately stops, standing up in concern.

“B-bathroom,” Roger stumbles out. He can’t do tell him what’s wrong in front of the rest of them.

John nods, bracing a hand on Roger’s shoulder to hold him upright.

“Leave him, Deaks, don’t let him ruin your night,” he hears Brian say. “If he’s drunk it’s his own fault.”

Roger wants to defend himself, but he just finds himself flinching.

“Fuck off, Bri,” John says before dragging Roger out to the bathroom. Roger catches a shocked expression cross Brian’s face as he’s pulled away.

The bathroom is empty, and Roger heads to the far end of the room to lean on the wall. He braces a hand on the sink. He’s beginning to feel less and less like he can stand on his own.

John stares at him with worry in his eyes. “What’s the matter, Rog?”

“I- He-” he stutters, but his mouth feels like it’s full of cotton and his tongue isn’t cooperating. “He’s here,” he manages.

“Who?” John asks, before he seems to immediately work it out. “What’s the matter?” he asks again, although this time it seems to be about Roger’s lost sense of balance.

He clasps his other hand against a hand dryer to try and keep himself upright. “I think he put something in my drink,” he slurs, and at John’s expression, he doesn’t seem to manage it.

John spends a moment working out what he’s saying, but seems to get there. “We should leave. You can stay with me again.”

Roger tries to shake his head, not let John open his home to him again, but it just makes him dizzy. He watches John take a couple of steps towards him, before he hears the door to the toilets slam open.

It’s him.

Roger finds himself pressing his body against the wall, and something must show on his face, because John glances between them twice before an expression falls over him that seems to show that he’s worked it out.

John steps between them, back turned to Roger with his hand stretched out behind him, as if telling him not to move. John isn’t too much shorter than the man, but he’s certainly more slight, and Roger wants to tell him to _move_ , that he isn’t worth getting hurt over.

“Deaks,” Roger says. “Deaky.”

John waves him off.

“Move,” the man says.

“Piss off,” John replies.

The man takes a step forward, and John takes a step back so he’s closer to Roger. Roger doesn’t know what to do, his limbs stubborn and unmoving, and he feels utterly helpless.

Roger can’t really see what happens, but John shifts in an odd way and Roger thinks the man has his hands clenched in the lapels of his jacket. “Deaky,” he tries again, trying to get his friend to stand down.

“Leave, and I won’t hurt you,” the man says.

The door opens again.

“Roger? Deaky?” Roger relaxes at the sound of Freddie’s voice. “What’s-”

Roger’s brain sort of frazzles out about then, and he slumps to the floor. It’s enough distraction for John to push the man off him and for Freddie to shove the man against the wall. Roger knows Freddie isn’t a particularly aggressive person, but he’s scrappy, and he’s deeply protective of his friends. Something warm blooms in Roger’s chest despite it all.

His ears are ringing, and he can’t really hear what’s being said, but Freddie’s shouting at the man, and he thinks he slaps him, before he essentially drags the man out of the bathroom. It’s a funny sight given how much smaller Fred is, Roger thinks.

“Roger?” a voice says, muffled. “Rog?”

It’s John, and Roger seems to come back to himself as he struggles to focus on John’s face. John looks worried, and he frowns.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Roger tells him.

“Can you stand?”

“He could’ve hurt you,” he says.

John just rolls his eyes. “Fred, lend us a hand,” he says.

Roger finds himself pulled to his feet, arms hooked over both their shoulders. They stumble their way out of the bathroom.

“Hi, Freddie,” Roger says, realising he hasn’t greeted him since he showed up in the toilet.

“Hello, darling,” Freddie replies with a gentle smile.

Roger rolls his head onto his shoulder, and he’s soon hit by a rush of cool air as they step outside. He’s grateful for it, but it doesn’t last long, because he soon finds himself in the back of a cab in between Freddie and John.

“What about Brian?” he asks Freddie.

“Don’t you worry yourself over him,” Freddie replies quietly.

He frowns at Freddie. “Shouldn’t leave him alone.”

“I didn’t,” he says. “He left when I went to check on you.”

“Oh,” Roger replies, and drifts out of consciousness on Freddie’s shoulder.

*

They drive to the studio the next day in silence. Roger woke up back in the Deacons’ spare room and promptly threw up into the plastic bin someone had so kindly provided him with. Whether it was whatever was still left in his system or memories of the night before that caused it, he doesn’t know. He apologised to Veronica as they left, which she waved off.

Roger can feel his gut churning at the thought of seeing Brian. He craves his comfort; he needs some illusion of protection from him. He doesn’t want to tell him outright. Brian would either feel guilty for leaving him alone the first time, or he wouldn’t care. Neither option is appealing to Roger, but he doesn’t think Brian will work it out. He’s a smart man, but not the most observant.

Freddie however. Freddie could probably tell what sort of cereal he ate yesterday just by the way he says ‘good morning’. He’s known something was wrong all week, and last night only proved it to him. Roger feels a little like he owes him.

“Can you tell him?” Roger asks John abruptly.

“Hm?” John questions, eyes not leaving the road.

“Freddie,” he clarifies, remembering the John doesn’t share his thought processes. “Can you tell him what happened last week?”

“You haven’t told me what happened,” John points out.

“You know what didn’t happen,” he replies. “And you know what happened last night.”

 John looks unsure, but spares him a glance and relents. “Are you sure?”

Roger nods.

“Alright, then,” he says.

“Tell him not to fuss, though,” he says as he fiddles with a loose thread on his coat.

John inclines his head. He’s silent for a couple of minutes, and Roger can tell he wants to ask something. “And Brian?”

“No,” he replies quickly.

Roger expects John to argue, to tell him that he really should speak to Brian about what happened, especially if the rest of them know. He doesn’t though, he drops it, and Roger feels a swell of affection for his friend.

They pull up to the studio earlier than Roger ever shows up to it when he’s on his own. They’re the first there, and they go sit in the breakroom while John boils the kettle and sets about tuning his bass. Roger picks up the paper and flicks through it, grateful for the distraction.

He’s turned away when Brian arrives. John stops playing and rests his instrument down.

“Where were you this morning?” Brian asks Roger.

John slips out the door behind him, presumably to give them both privacy or intercept Freddie when he arrives.

“What?” Roger asks.

“You weren’t at your house,” he explains. “Where were you?”

“Why were you at my house?”

“I left my jacket there last week, I only just remembered. Before the pub.” Brian says a little awkwardly before he asks again. “Where were you?”

Roger side eyes him but doesn’t turn away from his newspaper. “Why do you care?”

Brian seems at a loss for words, but Roger can feel both embarrassment and annoyance rolling off him. It’s a good start to the day. “I was at Deaky’s,” he says after a beat.

“Why the hell were you at Deaky’s again?” he asks. “Didn’t he just shove you in a cab last night?”

The disdain in his voice makes Roger feel ill. “No,” he says after a beat.

His silence doesn’t seem to sit well with Brian. “That was real considerate, Roger. He’s got a life, you know,” he says. “And getting him to come get you at that time of night last week.”

Roger stands up and swings around to face Brain. “Don’t you fucking start shit now, Brian. You’re the one who left me halfway out of town with no money.”

“For fuck’s sake, Rog, I was angry,” he says. “Is that what you’re so het up about?”

“What?”

“You, being so all over the place this week,” Brian continues harshly. “It’s not my fault if you got pissed and started a fight.”

Roger flinches at that, and for a brief moment, Brian looks regretful. It disappears almost immediately, and is instead replaced with some odd mix of curiosity and annoyance.

“ _Did_ you get in a fight?”

“Don’t,” Roger warns.

Some part of him wants to tell Brian. Tell him, seek comfort from him, anything, but a lot of him is just tired. A lot of him just wants to move on and forget about it and go back to accepting that Brian is never going to give him what he really wants.

“Did you?” Brian interrupts his thoughts.

“Don’t, Brian,” he says again.

He laughs a hollow laugh, and Roger’s heart sinks. “You did, didn’t you?” he says with a cold sort of bitterness that stings at Roger’s core. “When are you going to grow up, Roger?”

Roger wants to fight him, wants to tell him what happened, what’s still _happening_ , wants to stand there in anything other than silence, but he can’t. Instead, he brushes past Brian on his way to leave the room.

Brian’s hand catches his wrist.

_Weight presses against his back, his wrists held together in a bone-crunching grip underneath it, a rough hand palms at him crudely-_

He hears himself let out a sound embarrassingly close to a distressed, whining dog, and he finds that he’s backed himself against the closed door, facing Brian with his wrist clutched to his chest. For a moment, Brian isn’t Brian, and Roger can feel his eyes widened in fear and his heart pounding in his chest. His chest heaves with heavy breaths. He blinks a couple of times, and he’s back in the room.

Brian’s staring at him in surprise, hands raised as if in surrender. Worst of all, he looks guilty, and Roger can’t take the rush of emotions it brings forth.

He lets out a sob, and he raises a hand to rub his eyes. He can sort of see Brian take a wary step towards him.

“Please don’t come any closer,” he says, and even to his own ears he sounds weak.

Brian doesn’t.

For a little while, all he can hear is the sound of his own breathing. It’s helpful, and helps him even it out.

“Roger-” Brian starts after a beat.

Roger leaves the room.

*

Roger drums aggressively but never misses a beat, relishing the pain in his bruised wrists as he does. He ignores the way Freddie keeps shooting him distressed glances – he knows John must have told him by now – or the way Brian can’t meet his eyes.

It gets to a point in the day where _Brian_ , of all of them, is struggling to keep up. He looks like his mind is elsewhere when Freddie calls it a day.

John approaches the kit and tells him quietly he’s just going to call Ronnie and ask if she needs anything picking up on the way back before leaving. Roger is surprised John’s expecting him to come back with him, but he’s grateful and doesn’t comment. He watches as Brian leaves after him without another word.

Freddie hands him a bottle of water, which he graciously accepts before getting up from behind his kit.

“Roger?” he says.

Something rolls in Roger’s stomach, knowing what’s probably coming. He’s worried he might snap if Freddie says anything too personal. “Yeah, Fred?”

“You can talk to me about anything, you know that, right?” he says, and he’s looking at him with a gentle expression that makes Roger instantly let his guard down.

He sighs. “Yeah, I know,” he replies. “I just don’t feel like talking about it.”

“Okay, love,” Freddie says. “I’ll make sure to describe him to security wherever else we play.”

Roger nods. “Thanks, Fred.”

“Can I hug you?” he asks.

“Yeah,” he replies softly, something warm in his chest about how considerate Fred is to ask.

Freddie wraps his arms around his shoulders gently, and Roger finds himself relaxing against the older man, looping his arms around his waist. Freddie tightens the hug, and Roger rests his head on his shoulder.

He isn’t sure how long they stay like that.

*

John knows Brian is following him as he leaves the room. He left mostly to give Freddie the moment with Roger he’s been wanting since he told him what happened, and while he’s glad Brian left too, he is less pleased about the fact he’s stalking after him with a purpose. He steps into the breakroom, leans against a table, and waits for Brian to shut the door behind them.

“What?” he asks expectantly when Brian doesn’t speak.

“What’s going on with Roger?” Brian asks, slightly too harshly for John’s taste.

He crosses his arms. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t, John,” he says. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” he replies.

Brian rolls his eyes, and John feels something hot and angry brewing inside him at the fact he doesn’t seem to grasp the gravity of the situation. “Why does he keep staying at your house?”

“You didn’t care when I called you last week,” he replies. “Or last night, when he was clearly scared out his wits.”

Brian doesn’t reply.

“God, Brian, you’ve seen him drunk, that wasn’t-” he cuts himself off, unsure of how much Roger would want him to say.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t think-” he cuts himself off then, and John softens a little when he realises that the anger he’s showing seems only to be a front. There’s a lot of worry in his eyes, and in his voice when he next speaks. “I know something’s wrong.”

“What happened?” John asks.

Brian seems hesitant, but continues. “We argued again, this morning after you left. He was leaving, and I grabbed his wrist,” he says. “Fuck, Deaks, he was fucking terrified.”

Brian sounds so upset by it that John can’t find it in himself to be angry anymore. He feels his shoulders slump. “You should talk to him,” he says.

“He won’t want to talk to me,” Brian replies, sadly confident. “Can’t you tell me?”

“I promised I wouldn’t,” he tells him.

Brian looks resigned. “Something did happen, then.”

John’s silence is all he needs.

“That bad, huh?” his voice sounds like it might break. “I shouldn’t have left him.”

The vindictive part of John wants to tell him _no, you shouldn’t_ , but it wouldn’t help either of them. “You were angry,” he tries to rationalise, whether to himself or Brian he isn’t sure.

“I left him with no money, in a place he didn’t know, twenty minutes out of town in, let’s face it, a pretty dodgy area,” he replies. “God, I’m an idiot.”

John doesn’t really know what to say. “Talk to him tomorrow,” he suggests. “I’ve got something I can work on with Fred, we’ll stay out your way.” He pushes himself up off the table he’s leant on. “I’m going to go, now,” he says.

Brian nods but doesn’t move from where he stands as John leaves.

*

They don’t talk the next day, or any time the week after. Brian isn’t entirely sure how the argument they had that night spins so out of control, but it turns into an endeavour lasting a fortnight or so more.

He knows something is wrong. He desperately wants to know what, to know why Roger is so agitated or why he sometimes looks into a crowd and suddenly presses himself up against Freddie or John. He wishes it was him Roger was turning to, but he thinks he’s maybe lost that right.

He wants an apology, and he wants to apologise too for all that they said, but it just keeps getting worse. Roger or himself does something that infuriates the other while they’re writing or recording, and suddenly it all spirals out of control.

John keeps shooting him disapproving glances, and though he thinks Roger’s moved back to his own home now, gives Roger a lift every day.

They don’t really speak to each other much at all, and Brian finds he misses Roger dearly, but Roger doesn’t seem to want to speak to him and there isn’t much conversation between them outside of the album and the conversations and arguments it brings. Brian tries his best to keep his anger under control and not get too personal, especially with Roger looking so tired and disappearing every so often, only to reappear with red-rimmed eyes, but he fails on more than one occasion.

Brian wants to ask what’s wrong, but he doesn’t think he can.

It’s nearly two weeks to the day that it happens.

It’s the first time he and Roger have been out of the studio with just them. Roger wanted to go to the corner shop for some smokes, Brian needed to pick up some painkillers, and seeing as they were next to each other in town, they left together. That and Roger doesn’t seem to go anywhere on his own anymore.

He’d probably be grateful for Roger’s company if Roger hadn’t just called him a cunt in recording. As it stands, he’s very pissed off with Roger, and he’d been hoping to clear his head. Roger follows him like a lost puppy as he storms off up the road.

He’s not really paying attention, but Roger seems to see something and is suddenly pressing up close to him like he’s done to Freddie and John. It’s almost what he’s wanted – Roger finding comfort in him, not them – but in his anger he shoves Roger off him.

“Fuck off, Roger,” he snaps, and turns to look at him. He regrets it immediately.

Roger’s eyes are wide and tearful, and he keeps glancing around like he expects something to surprise him. He looks lost and _scared_ , and he steps forward to grab at Brian’s arms. Brian’s too shocked to move.

“Brian, please,” he’s saying, repeating even, “please, I’m sorry, don’t leave me.” It comes out as a litany, and it occurs to Brian that he’s never heard Roger _beg_.

Something painful cuts to his core, and Brian instantly tries to fix what he’s done. He touches his arms gently, rubs them in what he hopes is a soothing motion. “Alright, alright,” he says gently, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Roger is breathing heavily, and Brian instantly abandons his plan to get painkillers, and turns them around to head back to the studio. They walk in close step, and it’s the first time Brian’s actually acknowledged that something is seriously wrong.

They get back, and he can tell John and Freddie know something’s happened. Roger sits down when they get in, looking slightly ashamed, and Brian feels something uncomfortable churn in his stomach. He gets Roger a glass of water, and when he hands it to him, Roger looks at him like he hangs the moon. Brian’s heart aches.

They return to quiet work, but it doesn’t take long for Roger to duck out of the room. He’s assumed that he’s outside for a smoke or something. It’s only when he goes to the toilets that he realises something is wrong. It’s late by then, and as far as Brian knows, there’s no one except them and a couple of other people he walked past in the studio.

Heavy, uneven gasping sounds from a locked cubicle.

He walks over to it slowly, and he can see the underside of what he thinks are Roger’s suede boots underneath the door.

“Rog?” he asks softly.

The wheezing stutters, but it doesn’t stop.

“Roger,” he repeats, “it’s me. Are you alright?”

“Brian,” the voice says, and it confirms who he thinks it is. “Bri, go away,” the words are forced out between shaky breaths.

Brian’s heart clenches. “Roger, I only want to help,” he says gently to the door. “Can you let me in?”

There’s a pause, and Roger doesn’t reply. Brian’s about to resign himself to sitting outside the door for the foreseeable future, but suddenly there’s a shuffle and the door unlocks. Roger doesn’t open it though; it swings open freely.

Roger’s sat on the floor pressed against the side wall, arm drooped over the toilet and breathing heavily. His face is tear-stained, his eyes panicked, and his chest is heaving as he tries to draw breaths in too quickly.

His heart is in his throat at the sight, but he tries to put it aside. He can’t really kneel down opposite Roger to look at him – the cubicle too small and Roger’s legs are in the way – but he manoeuvers himself around the door to shut it again behind him, and sits on the floor next to Roger.

“Easy, Rog,” he murmurs, and takes Roger’s hand gently, placing it against his own chest. He hopes his own breathing can guide him back to a steady rhythm. “Breathe.”

It takes a while, but eventually Roger’s breathing evens out. He’s still crying though, and Brian doesn’t really know what to do with that but wrap his arm around Roger’s shoulders. Roger leans his head on Brian’s shoulder, and Brian finds himself pressing a kiss to the top of his head before he can stop himself. If Roger notices, he doesn’t comment.

“It wasn’t even him,” Roger says eventually.

“What?” he asks.

“Was just some fucking _guy_ ,” he continues, seemingly oblivious to how lost Brian is. “It was just with the beard, he looked-”

Roger cuts himself off, and Brian is no more clued in about what happened. He instead rubs a thumb against his shoulder.

“He _was_ staring at me,” Roger says suddenly.

Brian still doesn’t know what he’s on about. “Who?”

“That guy. In the pub.”

It takes him a while to remember, but he gets there. “Yeah?” he prompts softly.

Roger nods against his shoulder.

Brian finds himself filled with nervous energy, but he wills himself not to move. It’s the answer he’s been seeking for nearly two weeks, and he doesn’t want to scare Roger into not continuing.

“I went outside after you’d gone. He asked me for a light.”

He doesn’t reply, letting Roger continue in his own time. He looks down as Roger plays with a loose thread on his jumper.

“He pushed me into an alley,” he says. “The face thing was from the wall.”

The bruise had more or less gone now; only really noticeable when pointed out or if it had been seen before. Brian had seen it before, and it’s glaringly obvious to him. He wonders why he didn’t ask when it had first appeared. Looking at Roger’s hands as he fiddles does reveal something else – disappearing bruises wrapping around his wrist. He shouldn’t be able to see them, but he still can despite it being more than a couple of weeks ago. He knows the kind of pressure that’d need. It makes his stomach churn.

“Did he beat you?” he hears himself ask.

He feels Roger shake his head.

“Then what-” he starts, before he cuts himself off.

He thinks a part of him knows then, and he thinks he should have noticed sooner. The idea doesn’t quite form in his head yet, but it’s getting there at too fast a rate for Brian to stop it.

“He told me he’d seen me looking, and he knew what I wanted,” Roger continues hoarsely. “I couldn’t move,” he says.

It clicks in his head then, and the guilt crashes over him like a breaking wave. “Roger-” he tries, like he wants him to stop maybe, but it doesn’t go anywhere and sounds broken to even himself.

“He put his hand down my trousers, and-” he doesn’t finish the thought, and Brian mostly doesn’t want to hear it. He feels sick to his stomach, because this is all his fault, and he’s been awful. He’ll listen though, of course he will, if that’s what Roger needs. “He told me I wouldn’t want him dry, and he put his fingers in my mouth, so he could, you know-”

He cuts himself off there, and doesn’t speak for a long while.

Brian sits completely still, and unclenches the fist he hadn’t known he’d clenched where it sits at his side.

“Roger, did he-” Brian starts, before he aborts the sentence.

Roger is silent then, and Brian thinks for one dreadful moment that it’s confirmation. Roger shakes his head though, and although he’s relieved, Brian thinks he might cry anyway. “I got away,” Roger says, as if it’s a comfort. It is, in some ways, but he doesn’t feel any better. “I unbalanced him,” he looks up briefly, smiles a sad sort of smile, before leaning back onto Brian’s shoulder and showing him his only just healed burst knuckles. “Then I broke his nose.”

He listens to Roger’s breathing rather than say anything else.

“He found out who I was,” he continues after a moment. “Came to our show the other week. He put something in my drink.”

Brian thinks about John pointing out that Roger so clearly wasn’t drunk, and he wonders how he missed it. He hates that he left that night, seemingly without a care in the world. Worst of all, he hates that he left in a huff over the other three pissing off somewhere, wrapped in self-pity while god knows what happened in that bathroom.

“I shouldn’t have taken it, it was stupid, I don’t know-”

“Rog,” he interrupts, “Rog, it wasn’t your fault.”

Roger doesn’t move as he seems to calm himself down. “I keep seeing him. I don’t know if it’s actually him, but I think it is.”

He sounds so _broken_ over it that it breaks Brian’s heart. He can’t help but think that if he hadn’t been so inconsiderate as to abandon Roger that night, none of it would have happened.

“I’m so sorry, Rog,” he finds himself saying.

“It’s alright,” Roger replies softly.

“Don’t-” he starts, a little too loudly, and he can feel Roger tense up a little. It makes him feel so much worse. He hushes his voice. “Don’t try to comfort _me_ , Roger, please.”

Roger doesn’t speak again, but he also doesn’t move away.

“I shouldn’t have left you,” he resolves.

It’s true. If he hadn’t, none of this would have happened, Roger wouldn’t have- Roger wouldn’t be crying on the bathroom floor of a recording studio in Brian’s arms with bruises on his wrists and god knows where else, having fucking anxiety attacks over a potential stalker.

“And I’m sorry for what I said that night,” it’s less important, but still needs to be said. “You’re not…” he stops when Roger stiffens, and he makes a note to never call him it again, “that.”

Roger sniffs, but he thinks he’s stopped crying.

He’s bared his soul to him, and Brian thinks he owes him the same.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” he says. “Especially when you were right.”

That does make Roger pull away. He turns his head to look at Brian. He’s stopped crying, but his eyes are still red-rimmed and watery. “What?”

“I do…stare at you,” he confesses. “And I can stop,” he says, although he isn’t sure how, “if you want me to Roger. I don’t want it to-”

Roger kisses him. It’s a shock, and he’s surprised, but his heart flutters in his chest as it happens. He reluctantly presses him away after he remembers himself.

“Rog, are you sure-”

“I’m in love with you.”

That stuns his brain back into silence.

“Have been for years,” he adds.

Brian’s aware he’s staring, he doesn’t quite believe him because he doesn’t _deserve_ it, but after a moment he thinks it’d be polite to reply. “I love you,” he says simply.

Roger doesn’t look happy, per se, but the expression he gives Brian is soft and gentle before he presses a second kiss to his lips and proceeds to lean back onto Brian’s shoulder. Brian’s legs are starting to cramp in the confined space, but he ignores it. He’ll stay there as long as Roger needs to.

Roger interlocks their fingers, and Brian rests his head against Roger’s own where it lies against his shoulder. He doesn’t ever want to let him go.

*

Things get better from there, more or less. Roger doesn’t see _him_ again, although sometimes he has to do a double take, and he finds himself less anxious, and he has less difficulty sleeping soundly when he’s alone in bed.

Of course, he isn’t alone very often anymore.

It’s early, a weekend, and while he’s regretful that he’s missing crucial time he could be sleeping, the moment is quite blissful. The morning light is dim, and he can hear the opening refrains of birdsong outside. Brian has an arm wrapped around his waist, his head bowed against his back so that his forehead rests lightly against his neck.

They’re taking it slow. Roger has never really been inclined to, not since he was sixteen, but he’s both glad himself and understanding of why Brian’s so cautious. He knows he doesn’t want a repeat of the wrist-grabbing incident, and although Roger thinks he’ll probably be fine, he still doesn’t quite know what sits as okay with him.

Besides, at this point, he’s more than satisfied with them bringing themselves off with their hands through indulgent kisses for now.

Brian mumbles something in his sleep against Roger’s neck, and Roger smiles to himself as he closes his eyes again, shifting closer to Brian behind him. It’s warm, and safe, and Roger can’t think of any place he’d rather be as he drifts into a doze.


End file.
